


That's only the tip of the Iceberg- Johniarty

by theforgotternsecret



Series: Johniarty- The rising tide [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ashes the rain and I, Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay, Jam, Jim's in Lurrrve, Lot of unwanted; un-asked for Mrs Hudson backstory, Lot of unwanted; un-asked for Sebastian backstory, M/M, Moriarty is Alive, Moriarty is Dead, Moriarty is as emotionally accepting as an avacado, Ro is in preschool now, jk, johniarty, pining jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theforgotternsecret/pseuds/theforgotternsecret
Summary: John thinks he's finally free: of sadness, of trouble, of the stupid overactive organ that is his heart. Silly Hedgehog. He might have gotten a new therapist, a steady and happy home life, and he and Sherl have been having fun filled, stress less adventures. But all that is about to change.This time its James that's life is rudely affecting John's life; so strap in for a very bumpy Johniarty ride.





	1. Sometimes I sit and I stare at the rain

_White._

_Diamond spray, shadows fade._

**Yellow?**

**Happiness, hope and all together** **rotten.**

Whatever the colour, the burning light ploughed unsympathetically, through the surrounding darkness straight into his eyes. He had been subject to many forms of torture in his life: bulling, water boarding, asphyxiation, seared with red hot pokers and good old fashioned slicing and dicing. But they were all child's play compared to this.

James Moriarty, sat down; blinking away the rays of early morning sunlight, his face remaining a displeased mask. He sighed.

It wasn't even they light that was the cause of the problem. No it was the-

“Sir?”

Moriarty, lay back- the bed, practically nothing more that a plank of wood with a slippery plastic sheet, managed to creak. He pushed his hands roughly onto his forehead trying to knock away the build up of emotions on the front of his mind, before dragging his fingers, in defeat, back through the now mop of his hair. Brown eyes stared, unfocused onto the damp splotched ceiling. Again the criminal found himself sighing, which caused him to sigh more: exasperated at his own exasperation.

“Boss?” Moran inquired with a slightly more evident tone of worry but his boss was too busy mentally complaining to hear anything else. The sniper crept through the separating tarpaulin, gun out and ready loaded; at the presence of the flickering shadow, Moriarty's whole body twitched- muscles clenching ready for movement, just for their brain to shut them back down again. It was Sebastian's turn to sigh, for surrounding the statued criminal genius where 10's if not a hundred jars of jam. Where Jim had gained enough jars, fruit, sugar and a saucepan, while both Seb and he are living in recluse, was anyone's guess.

 

After pocketing his gun, he regarded his boss again before walking over to lay a hand on his shoulder. To pretty much everyone, including Jim, the fact that Moriarty allowed the contact came as a shock, “Sir, are you... Ok?”

His eyes finally unlatched themselves from the ceiling, dropping to meet Seb's eyes “Honestly, no.”

 

* * *

 

“Here you go dear,” a cup of tea is rather forcefully placed upon the table, residing by Sherlock's reclining figure “Are you sure you didn't want one, John?”

 

“No, really Mrs Hudson it's fine; in fact I've got to go,” he checks his watch “Rosie's preschool is about to close.”

 

“Oh okay then.” She regarded Sherlock's un-moving form,  'Is he alright?' she mouths, straightening her back unconsciously.

 

“Yeah, working on a case. I think...” comes the reply,

 

“I'll tell him, when he wakes, that you'll be back tomorrow?”

“If you could.”

 

The door bell rings, “I better go get that love-”

 

John fixes his blue eyes on Sherlock dishearteningly, the detective's lips are pursed, his fingers forming the distinguishing bridge to his nose; as Mrs Hudson's footsteps echo away John turns his back, missing the flicker of Sherl's eyelids.

 

“Well, Sherlock. I got to g-”

 

The detective flips round, hand forcefully gripping John's shoulder “Not just yet.” he whispers.

 

“Sher-”

“Shhh!. Did you notice anything strange about Mrs Hudson?”

 

“Well I- no?”

 

A bubbly laugh floats up the staircase.

 

“No?”

 

“Well she was standing straighter I guess, but what?”

 

“I thought so...”

  
“Care to elaborate?”

“Don't you have to get Rosie?”

 

“Yes, but-”

“But?”

“Can you stop interrupting me?” Sherlock shrugs. “What I was trying to say is: If you think there is something up with Mrs Hudson you'll keep me updated right?” Sherlock shrugs, again.

“Right?”

Heels tap on the mahogany floor of the landing again; Sherlock sits up, attentive “Mrs H?”

* * *

 

In Moriarty talk, this was asking for help. Sebastian had worked for the Irishman for going on 12 years now, but not once he had seen him so vulnerable. Now Seb, knew he could use the weakness as his advantage- he could finally break out of this hellish job, or take over the whole organisation after all he hadn't stood oblivious at the sidelines for all these years; but while Moriarty was terrifying, cruel and just altogether rude, Sebastian had somehow gotten it into his head that his Boss was like a annoying, psychopathic younger brother. Seb hated it. When he looked into those usually guarded nut-brown eyes, he saw the wounded criminal really did need help. And this meant Moran was far, far out of his depth.

See, the problem was: snipers aren't exactly chosen for the social skills. Moreover, the necessary skills tend to be bred out of the lack of them. Seb had followed the stereotypical route of facing severe family problems at a young age. He was an self designed orphan: had once had a father, but before even his 16th birthday Seb had ended up holding the knife protruding from his old man's back. When he was 12, Moran had started to wonder why his old man only came home at 5 in the morning; at 13 he followed his father's car- somehow managing to keep up on his bike, fully expecting it to turn into what Seb then thought was his work building. When it didn't the teenager was desperate to keep up the trail, and followed his dad instead to a nonspecific warehouse...

After his recent out burst of humanity, Moriarty was unsure about what to do when his sniper stood back up and hurriedly left. His eyes, true windows to the soul, shone with sadness as he re-fixed their gaze to the ceiling and laid still. His sniper, was unsure about what to do when he hurriedly left, still caught up in thoughts of his past, which he could so strongly remember: the way his heart pounding when he realised what was in the briefcase his father pulled from his car; the responsibility being forced upon him, as his own farther pulled him into the drug business five years before adulthood; and the shock on the lady's face years later when they agreed on the decision that would obliterate the security in both of their lives.

* * *

"Sorry dear, it's for John-"  Their house keeper proffers before her a jar. John cautiously takes it.

"Thanks?"

Sherlock's reaction was quick, barley a flash of emotion - specifically fear. He thought Watson was too busy scrutinising the present, to notice his look of dread, and Mrs Hudson to busy grinning to herself. 

"You're welcome dear."

"Who's it- " She abruptly leaves "... From." John turns to Sherlock confusion deeply etched amidst his stress lines. Sherlock a split second before the words are out of John's mouth realises he was wrong.

"You alright? You look like you've just seen a ghost or something..."

 Because it worked well for his housekeeper Sherlock swept himself off in a desperate attempt to avoid the question, the flapping of his coat tails almost muffled John's annoyed sigh.


	2. Isn't rain filled with sorrow?

With nothing much else to do, Watson returned his attention to the suspicious jar in his hands. It wasn't his birthday, and it was seven months until Christmas; so why had he been gifted this: elegantly labelled in an archaic font,“Pear Jam”? He removed the lid and sniffed, it sure smelled like pear. But that raised another question, why pear? It was far from his favourite flavour, in fact he couldn't even remember the last time he had had pear jam. Its garish green colour didn't exactly scream appetising either, but John was prepared to give it a chance- not bothering to walk three feet to get a spoon, he dipped his finger in the preserve; it had a delightful overly sugared home-made tang to it. A delicately tied black ribbon had fallen to the floor as his opened the jar, presenting another query to the growing confusion- why had someone gone to so much effort?

* * *

Moriarty had shifted from his vampiric comatose; Seb had returned from, what effectively had been, his therapy session and had found his boss hunched in the middle of the floor compulsively stirring a mixture of plum and sugar.

“Sir?” Moran inquired with forced optimism. When the criminal turned it was with a remarkably similar facial expression to Gollum's, and honestly Sebastian half expected 'my precious' to come out in a hoarse hiss whilst Moriarty fondled his spoon. Instead, he was met with the surprisingly uplifting scenario of being snarled at in a slightly over dramatic Irish tone: “What?”

“I managed to get a job!” Luckily, Jim was too busy panicking to notice the strain in Seb's smile.

“WHAT job? You already HAVE a job!”

“Yup, as a yoga instructor.”

“ _Yoga?_  " Moriarty places down the spoon and pulls him self to his feet."You sink to yoga?" The spark of glittering menace in the Irish man's eyes ignited hope in Seb- the old Moriarty was still somewhere in that broken shell. The broken shell in question stood for a moment, fixing- flattening- its lapels; before beginning to pace around the sniper

“Yup, I start tomorrow”

“My- my!” He traces the snipers spine “Sebby-” (insert overbearingly exasperated sigh for full effect) “Did you ACTUALLY think, YOU could leave me? Well-” Moran bites back a smile- this was working even better than he had expected, Moriarty was finally back to full Moriarty mode again. It dawned on the sniper that this might mean his successful antagonism of his boss would result in his torture- but he'd cross that bridge when he got to it.

“Well, you're right.” The mad man sat back down- “You're right” was echoed again in a shrill harmonic as the previously thought psychopath began to cry.

“Boss?”

“Not any more- and that's good Seb: I mean just look at me...I've got GREY hairs!" He switched into a lispy British accent "I was always treated as if I had insisted on being born into the opposition to the dictates of reason, religion and morality-" Then began to yell, "but now even you treat me as if I'm someone to care for. So GO! Teach yoga- and enjoy your _life_ Moran. That's an order.”

The criminal turned back to huddle over his jam pot.

“Well that went well, Seb” the sniper muttered under his breath, walking back out of the door.

* * *

 

Sherlock was in a state of full blown panic. He had abandoned the jam thing, what 5 years ago?

The idea, he had realised later, was fundamentally flawed. After discussing his plans with Molly, he had begun to see that perhaps abusing his friend's PTSD was against social conventions, but he had remained curious about the mind altering properties of H.O.U.N.D-and surely John would forgive him after he had concluded the experiment. The narcissist had also assumed that only the preparation of the experiment was risky, as perhaps, John would recognise Sherlock ignoring him and depriving him of sleep, through  the playing of his violin at all hours, were behavioural quirks that had come completely out of the blue. Luckily, Sherlock had managed to dissolve any of John's queries masterfully, but then the real trouble became apparent. Once he had administered the drugs to John's sacred supply of jam, the test subject had disappeared from his radar. The only results he could record where John's snarky attitude and nightmares both of which where to be expected from the experiment. Then Moriarty had returned which sort of distracted Sherlock from his failing test. 

So why was it now returning? Was it a coincidence? The universe is rarely that lazy, so who knew about it? Molly. But Molly was Molly and she would have no reason to bring it up again. Then who?  Sherlock barged back through the door, grabbed the jar from John's hands, then exited again. Time to analyse...

* * *

 

Moriarty became slowly aware of the moisture on his face; the small droplets rudely rolling down his face, poured- unhindered- from his eyes.The constant splatter of the liquid, starkly contrasted the sporadic pounding of his heart which know filled his ears. Jim roughly wedged his tear ducts with his sleeves, sighed and resumed stirring with a blank expression back on his face.

Minuets, or perhaps hours passed, with only the rhythmic stirring to suggest life in the room. Water flung itself at the window which although heavily shattered had only not completely broken yet due the sheer will power of Moran, then bled lazily down the mould stricken walls. Every now and again, Moriarty would stop stirring and robotically pour the contents of the pot into a waiting jar, before refilling the sugar and fruit mixture.

Then the rigidity of his posture cracked.

He would not allow himself to continue- Seb had embraced life; so should he. He had made up his mind that the era of using jam as a coping method was over. Starting today, he would forget John Watson.

 

 


End file.
